


Five Years Later

by storyskein



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bi/Pan Bellamy, Dirty Talk, Emotional Sex, F/M, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Happy Sex, Life-Affirming Sex, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:45:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyskein/pseuds/storyskein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Prompt: for Bellarke: a couple of years later. they been through EVERYTHING together. hell and hurt feelings and blame and distrust the good the bad the ugly. And they feel SO MUCH LOVE and TRUST and ADMIRATION for each other. and it's so EPIC all the time - it hurts SO GOOD because it hurts SO MUCH - that romance feels meagre in comparison. but NOW, they add physical love to the equation. and it's all natural, no shame, and its reeeeaaaal good. and smutty :)<br/> </p><p>OR: Five years later, and everything is finally <em>right</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Years Later

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic got stuck in my head for awhile, as they sometimes do, and I had a lot of help bringing it to fruition. Thank you to skikru, my always <3 beta for constant cheerleading & feedback, as well as ms_scarlet and verbaepulchellae for offering insight & motivation.  
>   
> This piece wouldn't be the same (or happened at all...) without you guys.

When Bellamy and Clarke first have sex they’ve known each other for five years, five months, one week, and four days. 

To say that both of them expected it to happen sooner is an understatement. In one of those funny ways of life, it just never did. First Clarke left, and then there was the City of Light, and the reactors, and the exodus, and the settlement. Five years passed before the night that Bellamy brought his fingers up to trace Clarke’s jaw, to kiss her soft and gentle in the warmth of his cabin. 

Bellamy had been in love with Clarke since the moment she flew into his arms at Camp Jaha. But he knew that she didn’t feel the same way, or at least, was afraid. He had lived his life on the Ark afraid, knew what it was when love and fear twisted together. So when she needed to leave, he let her go. But when she came back, he helped her stay. His love, in the end, was big enough for her fears. 

Clarke, for her part, began to love him the moment he told her that closing the dropship door had to be done. He was the first person to ever tell her that she was okay, that she was enough, that she was more than what she had done. But after Finn died, she realized that no one she loved was safe. So she tucked that part of her heart away. Other parts of herself could become sharp as daggers, but the part that loved Bellamy needed to remain soft. For him. For herself. Clarke guarded that part jealously, selfishly, until she didn’t know how to do anything but protect it. 

But late winter is an odd time of year, a time of year when hidden things begin to stir.

When Clarke looked around in the middle of Bellamy’s living room that winter evening, she saw Kane teasing her mom about Abby’s terrible card playing skills. Jasper sat in the corner strumming a banjo he had made himself, Raven with her chin propped on his shoulder. Miller told stories to a small group of people, Bryan rolling his eyes at the ridiculous hyperboles. Bellamy appeared from his room in the back where they had put the sleeping babies, holding Bryan and Miller’s little girl, swaying and shushing in her ear. 

Clarke met his eyes from across the room, and when he smiled at her something passed through his face that caused Clarke to duck her head, shift in her seat. A blush curled up her neck and into her cheeks, and it made her feel younger than she had in years. By the time Bellamy had put Mia back down and sat beside her she felt so aware of everything: her friends’ laughter, the scratchy wool of her sweater, how much space she took up on the couch. That he sat just a bit closer than normal didn’t help. 

“I can't believe how she's grown,” Clarke said, her voice sounding strained. She wondered if he noticed (of course he did, they noticed everything about each other.)

Bellamy nodded to Bryan and Miller across the room. Bryan was leaning against Miller, and Miller’s hand absentmindedly stroked his arm. “They're good parents.” 

“Yeah, they are.” Clarke took a sip of the spiced wine she brought over. Mia was the new settlement’s first orphan, her parents killed by a freak accident earlier in the autumn. She had been only a few weeks old at the time, but Bryan and Miller had immediately taken her in as their own. Harper had just had a baby and volunteered to nurse her, and Bryan switched from guard duty to farming. The rest of their friends rotated through caring for Mia whenever necessary. 

“Though I never thought I'd see the day Miller would settle down to be a dad. I knew him from the Ark, you know. An Alpha-kid. He was such a player.”

Bellamy made a low noise in his throat. “I do know that.”

Something in his voice made her look up at him. “What do you mean--you and Miller?”

He smirked. “Maybe. We fooled around a few times on the Ark. We were better off friends.”

“You never told me that.”

“You didn’t ask.” 

Clarke made a low hum in her throat, took another sip of wine. It was rare now they found out new things about each other, and it absurdly pleased her. “You and Miller. Does Bryan know?”

Bellamy laughed, a bit bashful. “I’m sure. He and Bryan started dating soon after.”

“That good, huh?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

Clarke knew he meant it in jest, but this time, it dropped heat from her chest to the bottom of her stomach. She lifted her cup only to find it disconcertingly empty. 

“Point is, Griffin, we’re all settling down. Getting old. Harper and Monty have a kid, Jasper and Raven moved in together...” There was a smile in his voice, but something else too. Longing, she realized. 

“Hmm. I guess.” Clarke reclined against him, tired and buzzed. His arm went automatically around her shoulders. They had calibrated the right amount of affection over the last few years--enough to let each other know they cared, but not too much. The late-night, buzzed, almost-cuddling-but-not was firmly in their repertoire. 

Tonight though, Clarke turned her cheek into his shirt, breathed him in. He smelled of the soap she made for him, and wood-smoke, and a bit of sweat from earlier in the day. Was it the wine? The warmth? The fact that they _were_ getting older? The longing in his voice that matched what she felt? She didn't know. All she knew was that she ached for him, wanted him, and the reasons not to do it didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. 

Bellamy stilled for a moment, then brushed a kiss, so light she almost wasn't sure it was real, on the top of her head. She inhaled sharply and turned her face up to him. 

“Yeah?” He asked, voice pitched low and one eyebrow raised slightly. 

Clarke nodded. “Yeah.”

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead this time. “Good.”

*

Eventually, people bundled up in their furs and scarves and coats and braved the icy February night. The stars shone bright with winter’s clarity, but low slung clouds built in the distance, promising snow by morning. 

Bellamy closed the door behind the last guests as Clarke washed the dishes. His kitchen area was small, just a few shelves and wide counter built in next to the hearth. A ceramic water jug sat on a wooden pedestal next to the dish basin, blocks of dish soap she made were neatly stacked on the side. But the kitchen faced away from the door, so she felt him behind her, felt him thinking in that weird way of silent communication they had. He moved around his space, folding blankets and tidying up. 

Whereas usually they joked or talked or made plans, tonight it was silent. 

A log in the fireplace popped, sent a shower of sparks up into the chimney. Clarke placed the last plate on the shelf, hung the dishrag on the hook above the sink.

“Need someone to walk you home?” It was their usual stupid joke--she lived next door--but there was something else in his voice tonight. A question, a real one, and so like Bellamy to ask again if she was sure. 

Clarke pursed her lips, just for a moment, heart thumping in her chest. 

“No.” He stilled behind her, and after one last inhale, she turned to face him. He was looking at her, seeing her, like he always had. “Not tonight.”

“Clarke--,” He started, but then stopped. Instead, he reached out his fingers, traced them along her jawline. She flashed back to that moment in the cave, so many years ago now, _I'll get you out of here_. Because she could this time, she closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into his palm. His thumb stroked over her skin, and a pulse of desire hit her so hard she almost groaned. 

Years ago, maybe he wouldn't have been so bold to kiss her first. But Bellamy was older now, and what had been painful insecurities had begun to be smoothed away with time, with their friendship. He slid his lips over hers, gentle but assured, letting her know exactly what he wanted. 

Clarke answered him by pushing onto her toes, into the kiss. Bellamy wrapped one arm around her lower back and with the other stroked over her cheek and down her neck, fingering the collar of her sweater. 

Clarke tried to take things slow, tried to control the wave of desire rising fast and quick. But she was hot all over, her hands practically shaking with the need to feel his skin against hers, to put her mouth all over him. She settled for running her hands down his chest, hooking them into his pants, her knuckles grazing the ridges of his hip bones. 

He groaned and opened her mouth with his tongue, riding the line between sweet and dirty. Clarke hadn’t had someone kiss her like that, ever, all at once powerful and controlled, full of lust and longing. It was so Bellamy for a kiss to be so many things at once, to give so much. 

“Bellamy…,” she moaned into his mouth, unable to stop her hips from canting into his. He pressed back, letting her grind on the ridge of his erection. “Bellamy---”

He leaned his forehead against hers, nodded, started trying to say something but she couldn’t stop kissing him. Christ, his mouth was soft and full-lipped, and now that she’d started---

Finally he pulled back, laughing a bit under his breath. “Clarke…we should…”

“Talk? Yeah.” She placed one more nip at the hollow of his collarbone and throat, causing his fingers to flex into her hair. Clarke looked up at him, her hands resting at the junction of his neck and shoulders, fingers trailing the muscles there, not able to stop touching him. 

Bellamy cupped her face in his hands. Clarke stilled under his touch and took a moment to just _look_ at him, to let the happiness she kept at bay wash over her. This. She had waited years for this moment, for both of them to be ready. 

And now they were. 

So she felt like a goddamn sap when a tear dropped down her face, even as she broke out into a huge grin. 

“Clarke,” Bellamy huffed a laugh, hot and tender, and swiped away her tear with his thumb. 

She sniffed back the rest of her tears, but couldn’t keep a waver from her voice when she said, “I just...kind of can’t believe this is happening. After all this time.”

“We’ve been waiting a while,” he agreed. Bellamy put his finger under her chin, raising her eyes to his. “And we’ve been through some shit, Clarke. But these past couple of years have been pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah.” She smiled up at him. “We’ve done pretty well.”

“A settlement. Families. Friends, friends with kids.” He smirked, “Peace treaties.”

“Peace treaties,” Clarke laughed. “Who are we?” She let herself rest her cheek against him, arms around his waist. God, it felt good. Felt right. “It’s time, though. Our turn.” She paused again, emotion tightening her throat. “We did it, Bellamy.”

Bellamy was silent, one hand on the back of her neck, the other stroking down her spine. She felt that same emotion in him: the happiness, the disbelief that this time for them would ever come. That they could decide to let down their guard, let each other in, let themselves have what they wanted.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “It’s time.” He bent down and captured her lips with his, kissed her soft and slow until her knees went weak. Then he took her hand and led her to his bedroom. 

*

Bellamy’s room was small, just a bed, desk, and chair, but still very him. Scavenged books lined the shelves, a sheaf of paper Ria made sat on his desk along with a quill and a bottle of the ink Clarke was experimenting with. Several blades and a bow hung high on the wall, his clothes on a row of hooks by the small closet where he kept his guns, stored away and thankfully growing dusty. 

It hit her, suddenly, how much her presence was in Bellamy’s room, always had been. He had a few sketches of hers displayed on the walls, and the patchwork quilt she stitched for him two winters ago lay across his bed. The pot of muscle balm she made sat on his nightstand, her snarky label still attached: _just fucking use it._

Her room was the same: books he lent her, art supplies he found for her, an old jacket of his that he insisted she wear on a hunting trip last year. She never returned it, and he never asked for it back. 

He had left the room for a moment and returned with a lit taper candle to light the wood stove that sat in the corner. A crackling silence grew between them as she watched him light the kindling, blow on the sparks. Within moments a warm glow pushed back the cold dark. 

Bellamy stood, backlit against the orangey flames. They regarded each other for a moment, a bit unsure. 

He broke the spell first, slowly crossing the room to her. He didn’t break eye contact, and that singular gaze of his--open and hungry and vulnerable and certain--caused a flood of heat to cascade down Clarke’s spine. 

Bellamy moved fully to her, wrapped his arms around her. Clarke nuzzled into his chest, wanting to be so smooth about this but just not. She felt too awkward, and too jagged, and too aware that the soft place she kept only for him was about to be completely exposed. 

He started running his hands lightly up and down her body and along the curve of her sides. “What’s going on, Clarke?”

Everything, she wanted to say. At the moment that she wanted to be the most present, to be with him, to be about him and them only---things she did not want to think about sliced into her consciousness. Finn and Lexa, the other women she’d had brief relationships with over the years. Insecurity started to creep in when she thought of the fact that she hadn’t slept with anyone in a year, and hadn’t been with a man since Finn. 

Bellamy held her, and she listened to his breathing, steady but faster than normal. It comforted her to know that he was excited, too, that this was big for him, too. 

She settled on, “I’m...nervous.” It seemed like a good gateway sentence. She needed his help to say it, to figure it out. 

“Me too.” He said it simply, but truthfully. 

“I keep thinking of…” Clarke broke off. She didn’t want to bring all of that up now, especially after they had talked about all of their previous lovers time and again as they grieved them, but there it was. If they weren’t having sex, she would tell him, so she powered through. “...the past. I don’t want to be. But I am.”

“Me too.” Bellamy’s arms tightened around her. He waited a beat then said, “Clarke, the past will always be with us. You and I, for better or worse, we don’t forget.” 

He was right. Neither of them did. It’s why she held on to the part of her heart that was for him so tightly. Nothing could touch it, him, in her shadows. Not the violent memories of the past, not the desperate uncertainty of shutting down the reactors, moving their people hundreds of miles, the long, hard work of setting up a settlement and government. 

But that had changed over the past few years, as they moved away from surviving and into living. When it was more about the dirt under their fingernails than the blood on their hands. 

Clarke sighed. The nerves and the insecurities dissipated; the past receded to where it belonged. It seemed so simple then to say, “I love you, Bellamy.”

Bellamy gently turned her face up to his. “I love you too, Clarke.”

He kissed her then, deep and slow, giving them time to adjust to each other. Clarke slid her hands up his chest, and neck, let her fingertips stroke his jaw. It took all her will to break away from the kiss, but there was that one last thing--

“Bellamy.” She nuzzled her nose into his cheek, unable to put any space between them now. Heat emanated from his body; his muscles were tense underneath her hands. “I’m also nervous...um, insecure, I guess, because I haven’t been with...anyone...in a long time.”

He placed light little kisses at the soft spot behind her ear, trailed them down her neck. “Me either. I think the last time we both had sex was the Midwinter feast last year. Remember?”

“Oh shit. Yes, I do remember.” She giggled at the memory of both of them going to what they thought was their individual secret spot. Turned out they had the same one. 

His laugh rumbled out him. “Jesus. Your face. I’ll never forget. It was hot as hell.” His eyes darkened at the memory, his finger stroked her chin absentmindedly. “I remember that you looked up, and…” He stopped. This time, it was him who blushed. "Anyway. That was the last time for me, too.”

Clarke remembered that night perfectly: Petra, the pretty Plains Clan woman who she was with when Bellamy and Jynto, a beautiful, sharp-featured man from the Broadleaf Clan, interrupted them. A flash of jealousy had bolted through Clarke at the sight of them kissing, stumbling into the hidden outcropping of rocks. Bellamy and Jynto had stopped short, Bellamy’s face becoming inscrutable as he regarded her. Without saying a word, he and Jynto disappeared into the night. When it was Petra’s turn to give, Clarke had ridden her fingers hard, chasing something she couldn’t quite catch. 

Bellamy kept one hand at the nape of her neck, let the other dance down her side, lower and lower. “We’ll go slow. Whatever we need, we’ll do. But you have to say it, okay? If you need something.”

She nodded, starting to feel an intensity push against her skin now that everything was said, everything was bare. “I will. You too.”

He nodded. “I will.” 

It took one second of them just looking at each other, then they both moved at the same time. She pulled him to her; he caught her mouth in a hot, open-mouthed kiss. 

“Moving slow, huh?” She breathily laughed at him as his hands gripped her ass, pulled her hips into him. She rocked into him, feeling his growing erection through the layers of fabric. Her hands flew to the hem of his shirt, started tugging it upwards and over his head. 

“Do you have room to talk?” He held her earlobe between his teeth for a moment, until she shivered in his arms. “Didn’t think so.”

“I’ve seen you shirtless a thousand times,” she said in between kisses along his collarbone, floating them downwards toward his nipples. Clarke took one between her teeth as repayment for the earlobe, tugged gently until he gasped. “But fuck.”

“Eloquent,” Bellamy gasped as she flicked his nipple with her tongue. She flicked it harder for his smart-assery, and he clenched his hand into her hair, tugged until she stood back up. “Your turn.”

Her sweater joined his on the floor, then her cotton camisole. Bellamy slid the strap off her shoulder, mouthed the newly exposed skin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you naked,” he said, two fingers lifting one breast out of the bra. “You’d think after all of the communal showering…”

Clarke couldn’t respond for a moment since Bellamy’s tongue laved over her nipple. He rolled the nipple in his mouth, sucked gently. 

Clarke stuttered as he sucked harder. “I---I’ve---always tried to bathe alone. If I could.”

“Why?” 

“Just...a bit of time alone, you know?” He moved his hand to cup her cunt, not stroking, just giving the promise of friction. She flexed down into his hand, wanting to find that grind, but he pulled back just enough to not allow it. “God, you’re a tease.”

Bellamy reached around and unclasped her bra, slipped it off her shoulders and down her arms. He caught her gaze, smirked, knowing what his words would do to her: “I want you as wet as possible by the time we fuck, Clarke.”

Clarke groaned, backed up until her knees hit the bed, dragging him with her. “And I have a dirty mouth?”

Her fingers found the buttons of his pants, and in a few seconds he was kicking them off and pushing her back on the bed. Bellamy leaned over her, palming one breast while laying a trail of kisses down her belly, to the top of her pants, then over the rough fabric at the junction of her thighs. 

He opened his mouth and caught her there, bottom teeth lightly pressing right below her clit, top putting pressure on her mons. Just letting her feel the heat from his mouth through the fabric, letting the tension mount inside her bit by bit. 

Clarke couldn’t help it. She tried to roll her hips, get her clit on _something_ , and she whined when he moved his mouth. Her pants and underwear were off before she knew it, cold/hot drafty cabin air hitting her wet skin. 

“God, Clarke, you’re gorgeous.” Bellamy met her eyes, and Clarke flushed at the mixture of heat and delight in his gaze. 

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Clarke reached up for him, and he complied, wedging in between her legs. She let one hand trace down his body until she palmed him, hard beneath the soft fabric of his boxers. It felt like the inside of her was pulling towards him as she stroked him. “I want you. Now.”

“Not yet,” he laughed shakily and nudged his forehead against hers. “Things to do first.”

“Oh?” she replied, arching her eyebrows. “Like what?”

He smirked against her mouth before kissing her. “Let’s find out, shall we? Move up to the headboard.” 

She complied, completely aware of her body as she moved: the heavy ache of her breast, the warm swell of her cunt, the arousal slicking her thighs. Bellamy grabbed an extra pillow from the side, slid it under her back so she was propped up a bit. 

“I want you to watch me go down on you,” he whispered against the sensitive skin of her neck. His lips moved down her body, placing gentle bites along the soft flesh of her stomach, feathering light kisses along the ticklish ridge of her hips 

“Fuck, Bellamy.” Clarke bit her lip, threaded her fingers through his hair. 

Bellamy gently spread her thighs apart, nosed at the damp blonde curls hiding her cunt. “Anything I should know? Preferences?”

She smiled down at him. “Um...I like friction more than hard sucking. And very much a fan of using the tongue on the whole area.”

His thumb, the skin rough, began to draw wide circles around her clit. “Friction like that?”

Clarke’s eyes fluttered shut. “Um...yes.”

“How about this?” He replaced his thumb with the bottom of his palm, repeating the same motion. 

Her fingers gripped the quilt, her hips flexing against his hand. “Uh-huh.”

Bellamy made a satisfied sound low in his throat. He went back to using his thumb, getting closer and closer to her clit. This was maddening. He was maddening. She should have known. 

“And tongue?” 

“Yes!”

“Where?” He pressed his thumb against her clit. Clarke moaned, embarrassingly loud. She didn’t care. “Where, Clarke?”

“Everywhere!” 

She felt him grin against her thigh. “Okay. Everywhere.”

He licked with the flat of his tongue from her entrance to her clit. 

_Fuck_ , if that wasn’t the most deliciously dirty feeling she’d ever had. “Again,” she breathed. 

He did it again, and again, and again, while never letting up with his thumb. Just when she started to squirm under him, he switched it up to gentle licks up and down her labia.

“You taste so good. And you’re so wet.” He used his tongue to lap at her arousal, spread it around her thighs. “Clarke?”

“Yeah?” She looked down at him. His mouth was slick with her, and all she wanted to do was crawl down there and lick him clean. 

“Is it okay if I use my fingers?”

Her stomach clenched. “Yes.”

He looked at her over her body. “Let me know if--?”

She nodded, frantic, now desperate for him to fill her in anyway possible. “Yes, I promise, Bellamy. Please.” 

He smirked at the pleading in her voice. “Please what?”

“Please finger me.” Clarke’s eyes shut as his finger circled the entrance to her vagina, drawing the moisture pooling there onto his fingers. The darkness began to fracture as he slowly pushed in one finger. 

She lifted her hips, feeling the stretch of his large finger inside her. “More.” 

Bellamy moved so he was on his side, head at her stomach, his torso along her thighs. “Not so fast,” he said, laying a kiss on her belly. 

Clarke wanted him to be in her, now, but she knew he was right. Bellamy slid his finger in and out. After a few strokes, he dropped his mouth back to her clit, rolled his body back in between her legs. 

This time, when she gripped her fingers into his hair, she rocked her hips over his face. Stubble scratched at her sensitive skin as his finger curled into her, tongue lapped at her clit. 

Bellamy pulled out his finger, and she whined at the sudden emptiness. “Patience, Griffin.” He added a second finger, and then pushed them both into her. 

“Bellamy!” Clarke rolled her hips up to meet his hand, rubbed her clit along his rough palm. He held his fingers still, letting her stretch around him. 

“Clarke.” His voice was low, cajoling. She knew she looked completely wrecked, cheek against the pillow, sweaty tendrils of hair sticking to her face. “Clarke. I want you to look at us.” 

She opened her eyes, let her gaze find his first, then lower. His large hand was covering her entire cunt and the image of that matched with the sensation of his fingers filling her up---

“Bellamy.” She couldn’t believe the sound that came out of her mouth, cracked and desperate. 

“Keep watching, Clarke.” He kept his palm rubbing against her. His other hand pushed her knee up and out, opening her completely to him. He looked up over her body, caught her gaze. Then lowered his mouth slowly to her cunt while she watched. 

As soon as Bellamy’s tongue touched her clit, he started pistoning his fingers into her. Clarke was gone. The orgasm that began to build in her low belly felt like an electrical storm, wild and uncontrollable and dangerous. Before she knew it she was cresting, mouth open in a silent scream, back arching, heels scrabbling for purchase on the bed. 

Bellamy darted his free hand to hers, gripping her hand in his as she rode out the waves of her orgasm. 

“Come here,” she said, several long moments later when her body had quieted enough. Her voice was reedy and breath ragged, but she didn’t care. He didn’t respond fast enough for her liking, so Clarke pushed herself up in her near-boneless state and grabbed at him. “Come. Here.”

“So bos--” Bellamy didn’t even finish before Clarke’s mouth was on his lips, his chin, licking and kissing him clean. He kissed her back, kept making her come back to his mouth. In the span of a few seconds what had been a few moments of aftercare turned into something harder, edgier. Clarke bit at him, capturing his bottom lip firmly between her teeth. He gave back just as good, opening her mouth up, fucking his tongue into her. 

Before Clarke even knew what happened, Bellamy had flipped them so she was on top. She bent her knees but kept her hips slightly lifted over him. 

“Why are your boxers still on?” Clarke grumbled, immediately disposing of the offending fabric. 

“I seem to remember you had other priorities a few minutes ago.”

“Mmm.” Clarke made her way back up his chest, rolling a nipple in between her lips until she was rewarded with Bellamy, this time, gripping into the sheet. She dropped her hips until the silky heat of her was just barely touching his dick. 

“Fuck, you feel good.” He moved his hands from the sheets to her sides, running his hands over her hips, her belly, until he cupped her tits. 

Clarke rocked over him, just enough so some of her come helped her slide along him. She was still swollen and sensitive, and each time her clit bumped the head of his dick she bit her lip to stifle a moan. 

“Here…” Bellamy sat up, wrapped one arm around her back and shifted them both until his back was against the headboard. Clarke took a moment just to look at him, naked and sweaty, eyes wide, dick hard against his stomach. 

“I want you,” Clarke said, leaning in to kiss him with languid kisses. “Now.”

“You sure you’re ready?”

Clarke reached her hand to her folds, slicked her fingers with her come then stroked her hand over his dick. His hips bucked into her grip. She did it again, and again, until his cock was shiny with her come, his hips thrusting into her hand while her own hips mimicked the movement. Their mouths played over each other, catching each other's gasps. She loved the feel of his dick, heavy and warm, in her hand; the way his eyes focused/unfocused on her as she rounded the tip with her palm. 

“Yes,” she said, caressing him. “Are you?”

Instead of answering he joined his hand with hers over his cock. Clarke positioned him at her entrance. Foreheads touching, his other hand gripping her hip, her other one clenching his shoulder, Clarke began to sink onto Bellamy. 

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, breath hot against her cheek. “So wet. Clarke, you feel so good on me, so tight.” 

Clarke groaned, dropping her mouth to the junction of his neck and shoulder. Each adoration he spoke sending a surge of wetness over him. 

It took a few moments of rocking down on him before she took him to the base. How he filled her, anchored her to him, startled her. Clarke felt like she could barely contain him, like she could barely move.

His breath fluttered against her skin, his muscles clenched in an effort to stay as still as possible for her. She warmed with love for Bellamy, and with that she started to rock her hips over him, wanting more. 

“Bellamy, Bell--” Clarke bit her lip, trying to keep a rhythm with her hips but each time she lost control, wanting him too much.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Bellamy gripped her ass in his hands, taking over the rhythm. He lifted her just enough to then thrust his hips into her, then rolled her forward over him. “You’re so beautiful, Clarke. So beautiful. The way your tits are bouncing right now?” He sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, swiped his tongue relentlessly over the nipple. 

“Fuck, Bellamy!” She felt her walls clutch over him at the combination of sensations, the glide of his dick in her, the pinch of the stretch, the gentle abrasion of his pubic hair, the almost-bruising clench of his fingers. “You--you’re…” Her mind couldn’t grasp words, couldn’t think coherently. 

Bellamy smirked, obviously delighted that he was making her beyond speech. “Yeah? Tell me, Clarke. Tell me.”

“You feel so good,” she whined. “So good. You’re so big, I can’t--”

“Yes, you can. Keep going.” He picked up the pace with his hands, bringing her further up his cock before she slapped back down. “Tell me.”

“You’re making me so wet. Fuck, Bellamy, I’ve never been so wet.” Pleasure curled up her spine when he moved his hand to her cunt, trapped her clit between two fingers. She bit her lip, losing the words. 

“Keep going." It was a command laced with need. That Bellamy needed something from her--that there was something she could give to him--sent a swell of lust low into her belly. 

“Fuck, Bellamy, you look so good.” Clarke slowly dropped her gaze to where they were joined, making sure his eyes followed hers, changed her movement so she pumped up and down on him. “The way your cock looks right now?” She shuddered over her own words, “Shit, that’s hot.” Clarke pressed her thumb to his lips, dragging his mouth open. 

“You’re so good to me, Bellamy, so good to me." Bellamy snapped his eyes to hers at that. Clarke kept her mouth right over his as she chanted it over and over, knowing that it was doing something to him, shredding the last bit of control he had. She gripped the back of his neck for balance, fingers curling into his hair. 

Beads of sweat dropped from her forehead onto him, rivulets of his own ran down his abs. Groans laced their ragged breathing as he pushed them faster. The waiting and gentleness of earlier fled in the wake of need, of years of desire and longing. 

Bellamy came first, wrapping his arms around her torso and crushing her to him. He dropped his forehead to her breast, panting, kissing, sucking there until he stopped the slow convulsions shuddering through him. 

Clarke pushed the sweat-sticky curls off his head; he caught her hand in his, kissed the palm. 

“What do you need, Clarke?” Bellamy whispered into her hand. 

He felt good like this, still mostly hard inside her, the pleasure still built up in her body. It wouldn’t take much. “Just...keep your fingers on my clit.” He complied wordlessly, kept his eyes on hers. 

Clarke let herself go then, let herself feel the sweet fullness of Bellamy inside her, the hot-shiver building in her thighs, her belly, her breasts. Bellamy canted his hips into her just enough, held her down on him just enough. 

She chased that feeling and found it, crying out his name as she went over the edge. Clarke fell forward onto him, and in one movement, Bellamy slumped back against the headboard, cradling her head against his shoulder. 

Clarke was still shuddering a few moments later when Bellamy gently pulled out of her, leaving the bed to get a couple of cloths, wet them in the ewer. He cleaned them both off, which was just as well since Clarke was barely capable of more than watching his movements and touching him. Always touching him. She couldn’t get enough of the feel of his skin under her fingertips. 

Bellamy laid back down, and they rolled to face each other. Clarke walked her fingers along his collarbone and shoulder. Two faded pockmarks of bullets, both in the upper shoulder, colored over by a black-blue tattoo from the Broadleaf Clan. On the other side a mirrored scar, this one thick and white-silver against his brown skin. It had been an arrow wound that had healed badly, festering and opening again and again. Eventually, Clarke and Abby had cut away at the flesh and restitch the wound. That night flashed before Clarke’s eyes: Bellamy biting into a leather strap while Kane and Nyko held his shoulders, Niylah, Monty, and Octavia held his legs. 

Clarke blinked away the memory, dropped a kiss on the scar. 

“That was a crazy night,” Bellamy said softly, fingers tangling in Clarke’s hair. “Do you remember the storm?”

“Oh god, yeah. I had forgotten.” Clarke kissed over from Bellamy’s shoulder to his sternum. “Flashing and banging on. Using whatever tarps we could to keep the operating area dry. I can’t believe you remember it. Mom and I drugged you with whatever we thought we could get away with.”

He grinned down at her. “I was hungover for a week. But happy to be alive.” He paused then asked, “Do you know what I remember most?” 

Clarke shook her head but scooted closer, twining their legs together. 

“I remember waking up after the fever had broken, and you were curled against my back.” 

Clarke blushed but held his gaze. “I couldn’t help it. I was so relieved. I--I knew that I loved you, you know? I just couldn’t say it.”

He pushed himself towards her for a kiss, let his lips linger on hers. “I knew.”

Clarke kissed him back; she didn’t know she could soften further, but she did. 

“I had to practically boot you from my cabin,” he said after a moment, pulling back from her with a wide grin on his face. 

Clarke laughed, thinking of the epic shouting matches they had as he recovered. “You were such an ass!”

“You wouldn’t stop bringing me soup. And making me rest.”

“You needed to eat! And sleep!”

“You practically lived on my couch for a month.”

“You didn’t mind.”

“You’re right. I didn’t. But Miller wouldn’t stop making fun of me, and threatening to tell you about my crush. I had to save face.”

She poked him in the ribs. “Like I said. An ass.”

They lay there for a few more moments, until Bellamy brushed a kiss on the crown of her head and rolled out of the bed to feed the stove and get some food. 

“It started snowing,” he said once he was back in bed. He spread out a little picnic on some kitchen towels, handed her a mug of tea. 

“Oh, February, thou coldest of months.” Clarke took a few raisins from his palm, washed them down with some mint tea. “Spring soon, though. We need to start thinking of the crop rotation.”

Bellamy nodded, stole a cracker from her fingers. “I was thinking clover for an early spring cover crop before we plant corn...and the popcorn was a good trade, who knew…”

*

Sometime deep in the liminal hours between night and dawn, Clarke woke suddenly. Red embers glowed in the wood stove, and she could hear the _shush shush shush_ of snow falling outside. 

A restlessness nudged her. Clarke slid quietly out of bed, pulled on her sweater and leggings, padded out of the room. Clarke grabbed a shawl off of a chair, wrapped it around her shoulders. 

She opened the front door just enough to lean against the jamb. Wooly clouds sat low over the settlement, and the air was so crisp she could taste it. 

Clarke’s thoughts drifted with the snow for awhile. Eventually, she let them settle on Bellamy. 

She had loved him--they had loved each other--through so much, for so long, that what had happened tonight seemed...like another step into what they already had. Clarke didn’t know any other way to love him than this: inevitably, and to completion. 

That thought softened the fears that threatened her, that always seemed to threaten her when the nights were long and she was alone---

But she wasn’t alone. She let that sit with her, warm her. Not that she ever really had been alone with Bellamy; they had been some version of together for years. They had gotten so close, one way or the other, and each time one or both of them had taken a step back from it. She had always been too afraid and guarded; he had always been too cautious and unassuming. But this was different. She knew that they had finally made the decision to cross to the other side to everything that was _before_ , and let something else, something new, grow. 

“Hey.” Bellamy’s voice, unsure but trying for casual, startled her. 

Clarke turned her gaze to find him, and a smile widened across her face. “I got restless. Didn’t want to wake you.” 

Bellamy’s face was inscrutable in the shadows. “Did you--were you---”

She shook her head, just once. “Just looking at the snow. Come over here.” 

Bellamy crossed the floor. Clarke caught his arms, wrapped them around her waist. She rested her head against his shoulder. 

“I love you, Clarke.”

She turned her head to kiss his cheek. “I love you too, Bellamy.”

Bellamy tightened his arms around her waist, pressed his lips to the crown of her head. He left her a few minutes later, reappearing with thick socks and a blanket to wrap them both in. Clarke settled into his warmth, and they stood together at the door, watching as the late winter snowstorm ushered in a pearly dawn.


End file.
